West Lawn, and The rector of St. Mark's

by Mary Jane Holmes

“Why not to-night?” Johnnie pleaded, and so his aunt brought him the lock of hair cut from Margaret’s head, the mother’s last memento, which Johnny took with him to his room, sleeping more quietly because of that tress of hair upon his pillow.

It was a long procession which followed Margaret to her grave, and for the sake of Johnnie the sexton again tolled for the dead, until the husband and the sister wished the sad sounds would cease. Sadly they returned to the house, leaving Margaret behind them, and missing her more than one month ago they would have thought it possible. But as the days went by the family gradually resumed its wonted cheerfulness, for Dora was there still: their head, their blessing, and comforter. Many lonely hours Squire Russell experienced, it is true, but there was always a solace in knowing that Dora would welcome him home after a brief and necessary absence; that Dora would preside at his table, and keep his children in order; that Dora, in short, would do everything which the most faithful of sisters could do. The children, too, clung to Dora even more than they were wont to do; and little Daisy, taught by Clem, the nurse-maid, called her mamma, a name which Ben and Burt were quick to catch, and which Dora did not like to hear, especially if the father chanced to be present.

At Dora’s heart there was a constant dread of some impending evil, and when, three weeks after Margaret’s death, she stood one night alone with Dr. West, listening to his farewell, she felt again a longing to throw herself on his protection, and thus she might be saved from danger. But the doctor, though treating her with the utmost tenderness, had never broached the subject of his love since that time at Anna’s grave, where she answered him so indifferently. Her foolish words had hurt him more since than they did then, causing him sometimes to wonder if she did really care for him. If not, or if the germ of her affection was as yet very small, it was better not to press the matter, but let it take its course; and so, trusting that absence would do all that he wished done, he only said good-by as he would have said it to a dear sister, and hardly so, for when he would have kissed the sister, he left Dora unkissed, fancying she would be better pleased with such a parting. His caresses had wearied Anna, and he would not err this way again, so he never touched the lips which would have paid him back so gladly, but merely pressed the little hand which trembled in his, as he said to her, “A year is not very long, Dora. It will pass sooner than we think, and you must not forget me.” Another pressure of the hand, and he was gone, leaving the maiden far more desolate than he dreamed. Could he have known how fast the tears came, when alone in her room she went over with the parting and said to herself, “He does not love me now. My waywardness has sickened him;” could he have seen her when in the early dawn she watched him as he left the house for the last time, he would have turned back, and by taking her with him, or staying himself with her, would have saved her from the dark storm which would bear her down with its mighty force.

But this he did not know, and he went his way to Morrisville, where his mother waited for him, and where Jessie, just returned from Saratoga, sparkled, and flashed, and flitted around him, asking him to write occasionally to her father, and tell them of California.

“Why not write to you?” he replied, and Jessie responded at once:

“To me, then, if you like; I shall be delighted.”

Judge Verner, and Bell, and Mattie Randall all heard this conversation, and so there could be no harm in it, Jessie thought, while the others thought the same, knowing that the light-hearted girl was already corresponding with at least ten gentlemen, for not one of whom did she care in the least. She was a merry little creature, and she made the doctor’s stay at Morrisville much pleasanter than it would otherwise have been, and after he was fairly on the sea, she wrote to Dora a glowing account of “the perfectly splendid time she had with Doctor West, the best and most agreeable man in the world. We are going to correspond, too,” she added in a postscript, “and that will make the eleventh gentleman on my list. I want it an even dozen, and then I’ll be satisfied.”

Dora knew Jessie was a flirt, but this did not lessen the pang with which she read that Jessie, and not herself, was to be the recipient of the doctor’s letters. Never had the autumn seemed so dreary to her before; and when the first wintry snows were falling she shrank, with a nervous dread, from the coming months, with the long, long evenings, when there would be nothing to occupy her time, except, indeed, the children, or the game of chess which she played nightly with her brother.

For one who at first mourned so sorely for the dead, the squire had recovered his spirits wonderfully, and the villagers even hinted that, as is usual with widowers, his dress had undergone a change, being now more youthful and stylish than in former days when Margaret was alive. Young girls blushed when he appeared at any of the social gatherings, while the older ones grew very conscious of themselves, and the mothers were excessively polite and gracious to the squire. He was happier than he used to be, notwithstanding that he went twice a week to Margaret’s grave, and always spoke of her as “my dear wife.” It soothed his conscience to do this, particularly as he felt how much he enjoyed going home from Margaret’s grave, and finding order and quiet and pleasant words, where once there had been confusion and fretful complaints. Dora was very pretty in her mourning-garb, with the simple linen band about her neck and wrists, for she would relieve the sombre aspect of her dress with a show of white, even if it were not the fashion. There was not much color in her cheeks, and her eyes were larger than usual, but to the squire and the children she was very beautiful, moving among them as their household goddess, and always speaking so lovingly and kind.

Once, and only once, there came a letter from Dr. West,—a friendly letter, which any one might read, and which said that he was at Marysville, with his mother, whose health was greatly improved.